by Jayne Castel
She whipped her boning knife from its sheath and lunged.
Forcus was distracted, his attention fixed upon The Eagle chieftain who strode across the rush-strewn floor to face him. He caught movement to his left at the last moment and swiveled to defend himself from Tea.
Too late.
Her knife slammed up under his ribcage, sending him reeling backward. Tea’s left fist struck out and slammed into Forcus’s jaw, the force of her rage behind it. Forcus took another step back, tripped over a stool and sprawled.
Roaring, he let go of his sword and fell on his back. His fingers fastened around the bone handle of the boning knife embedded in his torso, and he yanked it free. With frightening speed, he twisted, rolling to his feet.
Tea had moved faster. She dove for the sword, her fingers clasping firmly around its worn leather hilt. With a shout of fury that deafened all that heard it, she lunged at Forcus and thrust the blade into the base of his neck.
The warrior gave a choking, gurgling noise and fell to his knees. He stared at her, his pale blue eyes widening in shock. Tea stepped closer still and drove the blade deeper, watching as the life faded from those cruel eyes.
“For my mother,” she whispered hoarsely.
Galan stood a few feet away, staring at the woman who stood over the slumped figure of Forcus mac Vist. He barely recognized Tea’s face, the fury that contorted her proud features. Her storm-blue eyes glittered as she stared unseeing down at the man she had just killed. Tears ran down her face and her body started to quiver.
Still, she held the hilt of Forcus’s blade tight, keeping his body upright long after the life had drained from him.
For my mother.
Galan had heard Tea’s last words but did not understand them. His gaze flicked to where Eithni, ashen-faced and hollow-eyed, approached her sister and wrapped her arms about her.
Something had happened in here prior to his arrival—he could see that. He had sensed it the moment he had stepped through the door. Tea and her sister had been standing by one of the long tables, their bodies rigid, their faces like stone. Forcus had reminded him of a circling predator, the low rumble of his voice the only sound in the empty space.
Galan slowly approached the women. Tea was weeping openly now, as was Eithni. They clung to each other as if they were cast adrift on a wild sea. Tea still grasped the hilt of the sword, her knuckles white from the force of her grip.
Galan stopped next to her and bent down, gently placing his hand over hers.
“It’s over now, Tea,” he said gently. “He’s dead—you can let go.”
His heart twisted when she nodded, her head bowed with the force of her grief. He felt the hand under his relax its grip on the hilt, and he relieved her of the weapon.
Deftly, Galan withdrew the blade from Forcus’s neck, and the warrior’s body slumped over onto its side. Dark blood pooled out under him, soaking into the rushes.
Galan turned his attention back to his wife. It had been such a relief to see her, unhurt and well, but that relief had lasted only a moment. He hated to see her so distressed. Tea was strong; even when she had been upset after Luana’s death he had not seen her lose control.
Yet now he did.
He hunkered down next to the sisters, aware that Cal and Lutrin had followed him inside. They stood a few feet away, their faces tense and worried.
“What happened here?” Cal finally asked, casting a glance back over his shoulder toward the door. Outside, the rest of Galan’s men were dealing with the warriors guarding the broch. It had been a brief but bloody battle—bodies of Wolf warriors now littered the fort.
“I don’t know.” Galan’s gaze shifted back to Tea. Her dark hair had come undone from its long braid down her back and had fallen across her face like a raven’s wing, obscuring her grief from view. Whatever had occurred within these walls, it appeared to have broken his wife.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Upon the Wall
Night fell over the Minginish Peninsula of The Winged Isle. Mist had rolled in just before dusk, settling softly over the craggy cliffs around Dun Ardtreck. The broch perched, cold and silent over the empty fort and the clusters of round houses and huts that carpeted the slopes below.
Indoors, the mood was no less somber.
Galan and his warriors sat at the chieftain’s table with Tea and Eithni, listening in silence as Tea recounted what had happened here. Ashen-faced servants moved around them, bringing ewers of wine and bowls of turnip and barley pottage to the table.
Galan listened intently, the pottage he had just eaten churning in his belly as Tea spoke of Forcus’s treachery. He had not realized that Tea and Forcus had once been lovers. If Tea had told him earlier, he might have felt a stab of jealousy. But there was no time for that now; Tea’s tale made everything else fade into the background—and when she finished an uncomfortable hush settled.
Next to Galan, Ru shifted on the bench, casting his chief a pained look. None of them knew what to say. Sometimes, the best answer was merely silence.
Galan looked down at his barely touched cup of ale, considering everything that Tea had told him. Forcus had deserved a worse end than the one he had received for all he had done. He had raped and murdered Tea’s mother, raped her sister and slain her brother. Galan now understood the rage he had seen on her face as she killed the warrior, and the grief that had consumed her afterward.
Mingled with shock, however, he felt a strange sense of relief.
His father was innocent.
Self-reproach swiftly followed on the heels of his relief when he realized that Tea’s discovery was far worse for her than the belief that Muin mac Uerd had murdered Fina. It had been easier to believe The Eagle chieftain, an enemy of their tribe, had done it. Knowing that one of their own, a man who her father and brother had trusted implicitly—and her former lover—had turned on them was much harder to accept.
Galan glanced up, his gaze resting on Tea’s face. She did not look at him—in fact, she had barely met his eye since his arrival here. He knew she was avoiding him deliberately, and that they would need to speak in private soon. Still, he had been waiting till he knew what had happened here, so that he could start to make sense of the events of the past few days.
“I’m sorry, Tea,” he said finally, his gaze flicking between her and Eithni. “For you both.”
Tea’s sister sat hunched under a thick fur mantle, her small, thin body trembling. Galan clenched his jaw at the sight of her shock and distress; he could see that Forcus had damaged her. He remembered seeing Tea’s sister at the handfasting, but he did not recall her being so timid. Ever since his arrival, Eithni had cringed away from him and his warriors. He had seen the fear in her eyes.
Tea nodded, still not meeting his eye. The bowl of turnip pottage before her had started to grow cold. “So now you know,” she said, her voice toneless, her dark blue eyes empty. “Your father was not to blame after all.”
Galan deliberately held his tongue here. It would not be wise to answer her. Despite her pale, shocked appearance, rage still pulsed within Tea. She was looking for an excuse to explode, to lash out, and he did not blame her. Tea’s anger would need to be released, just not here in front of her sister and his men.
Tea wrapped a fur cloak around her shoulders, drawing the heavy warmth close, and left the broch. Behind her, a carpet of figures lay sleeping on furs around the fire pit, yet she could not sleep.
Leaving the broch, she crossed the yard. Galan’s warriors had lit two peat braziers, illuminating the misty darkness. The outlines of Eagle men and women keeping watch moved in the shadows, but Tea ignored them.
Instead she climbed the stairs to the stacked-stone outer wall of the fort. The air smelt of brine and was heavy with moisture. Around her, the thick mist pressed in, tendrils drifting like smoke across the slick stone.
Tea barely noticed any of it; her thoughts had turned inward. She stared out into the night and tried to control the seething
rage and grief that still cramped her belly. Weeping had brought little relief—her tears had burned away now leaving an aching hollow in the center of her chest.
Forcus had destroyed her family.
She wished she could have killed him ten times over for his crime, yet that would not be enough. Vengeance would not give her Loc or her mother back—or have mended her father’s broken heart.
Tea inhaled deeply and turned her face to the sky. A light misty rain had started to fall. It settled on her skin in a cool balm. Somewhere beyond that porridge-like fog there would be a full moon tonight.
“The Mother give me strength,” she murmured. Tea’s life had never been an easy one, but she had never been tested as much as now.
The scrape of a footstep on stone alerted her that she was no longer alone.
Tea’s eyes snapped open, and she turned to see a man’s shadowy outline mount the steps behind her. Galan approached.
Drawing her mantle tighter around her, she waited for him. The faint glow of the braziers was behind him, casting his face into darkness, but she sensed his purpose. She had known he would seek her out so that they could speak alone.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” he greeted her quietly, his voice a low rumble. The sound of it caressed Tea, causing the tension in her shoulders to ease slightly. Her reaction to him made anger stir in her already knotted belly. She cursed her body’s response to this man; he had always been able to work magic upon her.
“No,” she replied before turning her attention back to the darkness beyond. The mist was so thick she could not even see the fires of the settlement below. The crash and hiss of waves on the rocks beneath the fort reached her; a sound she would forever associate with this place. The sound of her childhood. “Is the fort secure?” she asked finally.
“Aye. Those we didn’t kill, threw down their arms when they saw the fight was lost. I’ve left some men in the village as well so we’ll have some warning if more of Forcus’s warriors return.”
They lapsed into silence then and stood for a while upon the wall, listening to the night. Eventually, the silence stretched out so long that Tea inclined her head toward him. Was he ever going to speak?
“I wronged you, Tea,” he said finally, “and I’m sorry for it.”
Here it was—the barrier that now lay between them like a great mountain.
“It took so little for you to turn against me,” Tea replied, glad that the darkness hid both of their faces. She did not want to see the contrition on his face, or for him to see the pain on hers. She inhaled deeply, forcing down her fury. She would not lose control, even though she felt like raging at him. “When you heard about the raiders you were only too ready to think the worst of me, and of Loc.”
“You’re right to be angry,” he replied, speaking slowly as he considered his answer. “There is no excuse I can make.” He paused here, and although they stood at least three feet apart, Tea sensed his tension, the intensity of the emotions he held in check.
She watched him in the darkness, and saw him reach up and drag a hand through his unbound hair. It was a gesture she had come to know well; one he only made when upset.
“I used to look down on my father for his blind pursuit of vengeance,” he admitted finally. “I saw his behavior as weak, narrow-sighted. When he died and I took his place I told myself I would be different—fair-minded and wise—that I would not make his mistakes. I would rule with my head, not my gut.” He broke off here, the intensity of his gaze pinning Tea to the spot, even in the darkness. “That was my arrogance, my mistake. When it comes down to it, we’re all animals, we all act on instinct when threatened. For all my high words and lofty ideals, the moment I felt my people were threatened I let instinct take over.”
Tea listened quietly. She knew how proud Galan was—to admit his failings to her was hard for him, but it did not change what had been done.
“I understand that,” she replied, “but the fact remains that you turned on me. How do I know you won’t do so again?”
Her words sounded flat and harsh in the damp, dark stillness. Galan stepped closer to her. “I won’t.”
She shook her head, her throat closing as her anger bubbled up. “You think you can bend me to your will,” she ground the words out between clenched teeth, “but your words come too late.”
He reached out, his hand clamping down over her arm, his grip firm and strong. “You’re my wife, Tea. I’d drown the world in blood and then set it alight to make you happy. Don’t you understand?”
She stared up at him, her pulse thundering in her ears. “I’m no longer yours, Galan. Go back to Dun Ringill with your warriors—I’m staying here. My people need me now, more than ever.”
His grip on her arm tightened. She could feel the panic in him, the turmoil churning just beyond that cool, contained shield he wore. She was close to breaking it down.
“When I return home, I’m taking you with me,” he growled. “I didn’t come here to face your brother’s killer—I came here for you.”
She tore her arm from his grip, hurting herself in the process. She did not care; the pain only galvanized her. “It was a wasted trip.”
Tea brushed past him and ran down the steps into the yard below. Her heart was pounding now, for she expected him to follow her, to catch her so he could plead, cajole and argue with her.
But he did not.
Tea ran to the stables, past the line of ponies that dozed in the stalls. She recognized Faileas and the other ponies of Dun Ringill but kept going until she reached the stall at the far end where her bad-tempered dun mare stood. The pony snorted as Tea entered the stall, but for once did not flatten her ears back or try to bite her.
Tea would not have cared if the pony had. Gasping for breath, for it now felt as if the night was closing in on her, she sank against the mare’s fury neck, burying her face in its mane. She had thought she had exhausted the well of tears inside her, but it appeared she had not.
Not caring who heard her, Tea wept.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Farewell to Loc
The inhabitants of the broch broke their fast together the following morning with fresh griddle bread and fowl broth. It was a tense meal, for Tea and Eithni said little and the servants whispered to each other. When Galan’s men spoke between themselves they too used hushed voices, almost as if they did not want to break the silence that had settled over the table.
Toward the end of the meal, Galan shattered the quiet. “I and my warriors cannot remain here long,” he said, his gaze meeting Tea’s across the table. It was the first time they had looked at each other since their conversation on the wall the night before. Tea noted the lines of tension etched either side of his mouth—lines that had not been there a few days before. “Dun Ringill has few warriors left to defend it—but Dun Ardtreck has even fewer. We should search for Wid and those men loyal to him and Loc.”
Tea nodded. “Thank you.” She shifted her attention to Eithni, who sat beside her. “Do you know where Wid has gone?”
Eithni shook her head. “After Forcus slew Loc, he gave Wid a choice. Fight him, join him or leave. Wid left with a group of warriors and families loyal to him, and they rode east. That’s all I know.”
Tea’s throat constricted at this news. She knew why Wid had chosen to leave; however Forcus would have seen his decision as weak. A true Wolf would have stayed and fought. Still, her cousin was the rightful chieftain of her people, and she wanted to see him back here.
Galan turned to the tall, sinewy warrior seated opposite him. “Lutrin—take Cal and ride east this morning. When you find Wid, tell what has happened here and bring him home.”
Tea met Galan’s eye across the table. “You should not leave Dun Ringill undefended,” she said firmly. “As soon as Wid returns, you must leave.”
Galan held her gaze, his mouth thinning. “Aye, I’ll depart soon enough.” His gaze narrowed then. “But I won’t be going home alone—you’re coming with me.”
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Tea put down the cup of broth she had been holding with a hard thump upon the oaken table, causing Eithni to start. “No, I won’t.”
“You’re my wife, Tea—we were handfasted.”
“Handfastings can be broken,” she shot back. “I release you from your obligations.”
He leaned over the table, his grey eyes darkening to slate. “Obligations … is that how you see things?”
She lifted her chin, her heart fluttering at the power of his gaze that stripped her bare and called her a liar. “That’s all it was,” she replied coldly. “A pact between two tribes—one that is now broken.”
***
Two women, one tall with dark hair pulled back into a severe braid, the other small with unbound hair the color of walnut, made their way down the hillside beneath Dun Ardtreck. Both women wore heavy fur cloaks, their breath steaming in clouds before them in the chill air. They strode purposefully, making their way toward the row of stone cairns to the south-east of the fort.
The fog seemed to have thickened with the dawn, lowering so that it blotted out the top of the broch from view. Tea coughed as the damp, gelid air burned her lungs; it was so raw out here this morning that her nose felt numb. She glanced at Eithni who huddled inside her cloak. Her face was pale and pinched, although her hazel-green eyes were brighter than the day before.
Unspeaking, they made their way to the bottom of the hill before climbing a rocky incline to the row of cairns of their forefathers. The mound nearest the fort was the freshest, the ground around it still muddy from its construction—it was also the most hastily-built. Unlike their father’s cairn next to it, which was a perfectly rounded sphere of stone, this one had been stacked in careless haste. One side of it was already starting to crumble.
Tea’s gaze narrowed. “Was this the best they could manage?”
Eithni sighed. “Forcus’s men made a hurried job.”
